


Over the Edge

by 9_of_Clubs



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bottom Hannibal, M/M, PWP, but also character study, darker will
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-11
Updated: 2014-03-11
Packaged: 2018-01-15 09:43:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1300387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/9_of_Clubs/pseuds/9_of_Clubs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An exercise in poor kitchen practices.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Over the Edge

The weight comes first, the chuckle to his back as Will’s lips find his neck, hot and teasing. He can smell the fever on the other, the way it pounds and winds through his veins, but there’s something more there, a distinctly different taint, and it surges, infecting with something alien, something else that burns. Something darker to crave.

He is genuinely surprised when Will’s fingers dare to dance further, not waiting for express permission as they snake and slip under his apron and undo the buckle of his belt, the zip of his pants, glide down, barely touching. The knife stills in his hand and he growls low, a warning, perhaps, but the other isn’t listening. The fingers ghost on flesh, the blade slides against the cutting board.

“Will…” He warns with words now, but he’s starting to get infected by it himself, by this otherness that he understands as arousal and yet it’s nothing like the coy games he’s played before, not like the obsessive heat he’d felt but once. This is something new, something grounded in Will, something that starts and ends with the other man and makes him dangerously weak to resist. His head is heady, he must put an end to this but the game calls to him, the uncharted territory it beckons towards.

“Doctor Lecter.” Will’s voice is rough, mysteriously steady at such a time when so often he is anything but, his hands stroke little strokes as Hannibal leans his weight back into him, forward, unsure which way holds the most promise, feels engulfed suddenly, as though Will has grown and he has shrunk. “I thought you were making us dinner.” There’s dark amusement in the words, glowing embers in the bonfire, and Hannibal picks up the knife in answer, returns to the vegetables as the laughs sounds again. “Good.” The breath ghosts on his ear, and he almost flings the knife on reflex, only his steadfast hold on self control stills him, his muscles tensing all over, his back, his arms. This is a dangerous game and it steals his breath with possibility. He wonders when he lost control of this evening. “I was getting hungry.” The knife slips, just a hair, but enough.

He feels the heaviness of Will’s gaze more than he does the heat of his body as they work, Hannibal on the slow, even, dicing of the vegetables, Will on the drawn out barely there touches he inflicts, the strokes that come perfectly timed with Hannibal’s fingers, wrist twisting around, palm touching only once, enough to draw a gasp from the other and then flitting away again. The cubes of cucumber and tomatoes come out perfectly as they settle into a dance. The pleasure pulses in the background, an ever present thrum, but not enough to break his concentration, not enough to distract from the task at hand. Only a few slices of the knife remain before they are all perfect, the thought comes to him triumphantly, not knowing what exactly he's striving to win, just knowing that he's pushing towards towards it. But then, just as he lifts his blade to bring it through the skin of them once more, Will’s lips are at his neck, teeth biting down hard. The knife doesn’t stop in time as his fingers jerk, body going taut, slices hideously crooked, the pieces scattering and messy, uneven.

They both pause.

“Oh no.” He is silent as Will shifts, leans over him more heavily, the press of his body determined, his arousal strong, to snarl foul playl as it fi only through his nose, drowns him, he wants to drink it in, wants to turn around and push the smal?er man into the nearest wall, to snarl foul play. But he’s only still as the slightly gleeful cadence of words fall around him. “What’s to be done about that?”

It is the stunning vie for control, he thinks, the tainted loveliness of it, that brings him to allow Will to yank his pants down, to spread his legs and lean him forward as the other commands him to continue and he exchanges knife for flame. The already simmering meat meeting the vegetables and the smell of food mixing with their own. Not so different, he thinks, even Will might see at this moment, the meat cooking in its fire and they in their own.

He doesn’t question how Will’s finger became slippery and wet as it pushes into him without ceremony, his hips canting back as he groans, the pressure and the intrusion welcome and unwelcome in a confusing symphony that starts somewhere at the lower half of his body and strangles his brain. It doubles when he must move to start the final stages of the cooking, has to stretch to retrieve a spoon or a spice and the intrusion jars into him. The heat from the fire draws the lust higher as the shadows dance across the kitchen, a primal feeling brewing that he associates less with this activity than most do and more with something else altogether. Yet Will looses the beast and makes him more like _them_ all in one fell swoop. The pleasure jumps as another finger comes, another string plucked, and they crook in him as he picks up the pan struggling for an even hand just long enough to flip the mixture before he all but slams it down, folding over himself with a pant. They crook again and the whole kitchen flashes in front of him before the fingers still altogether, deep inside of him as Will closes the space between their bodies and leans forward, resting his head against Hannibal’s back and waiting. It feels strangely comfortable and he allows it, allows the other to press kisses to his still clothed back, to stroke under the layers of his clothing and across his hips with his free hand, up his chest, to twist around a nipple. The skin tingles with the sensation, untouched for so long, and never laid out quite like this, so bare, even though they are both mostly clothed, even though they have not even looked at each other in the eye. At first, it had felt of depravity, but he finds a different kind of purity in this moment, in this time with Will, finds perhaps, understanding of sorts.

The flame turns off and the food carefully moved to plates asthe fingers inside of him withdraw to rest sticky on his hips and he turns around in them, the other not hesitating for a moment as he pushes them into the wall, their lips coming together in a rough slide and pull of tongue and mouth. Will agresses and he finds he does not mind submitting, enjoys his own loss of control, enjoys Will’s more so. A hand slides through his hair and pulls, lips back on his throat, teeth flash sharp into his skin, and then his own sink in. Will growls at that, eyes dark like a predator as he turns Hannibal around again, pushes him flat against the wall, the rumbling of Hannibal’s entertainment between them. The new pressure between his legs is a sensation flavored entirely in its own unique way, the ripping and tearing as Will slides into him is quite the way he imagines himself cutting into his victims. Will burns, destroys, but with the right movement, just a hint of something against the pain, and it turns to beauty, the music returning to his ears, the pleasure sliding through him heightening with the scent of Will, the sounds of him, the way they slip under his skin, the way the two of them combine in the moment. He has spent so long now, trying to meet with Will, through words and art, games of the tongue and knife, but this, he shudders, his back arching as his hands find the smoothness of the wall, scrabbling for invisible purchase, but this combines them in a wholly new way, his hips buck into the air, his body tuned and ready, and in this game, Will finally plays the role Hannibal envisions for him. The thought, which draws a gasp from his lips, paired with the movement of Will inside of him, a rough rasp in his ear, fingers that tighten into his wrists, sends the pleasure rumbling through, pushes him over and down and he’s dropping as the music swells. In his mind, he clings to Will, sends him tumbling over as well.

Together they fall.


End file.
